


Remembering

by Militia



Series: Commander Fox [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Memory Loss, Order 66, Sheev Palpatine is a dick, memory manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25836988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Militia/pseuds/Militia
Summary: Fox catches glimpses of time, where CC-1010 isn't merely a shell of a man, isn't merely a clone, but the full human who's starting to break apart at the seams.CC-1010 shorts out, and Fox wakes up.
Series: Commander Fox [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874752
Comments: 16
Kudos: 78





	Remembering

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at his hands for.

Wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring, un-seeing, at the bare skin.

He didn’t remember getting back. Didn’t remember taking a shower.  
The water dripping down his neck and face from his still wet hair, his too clean hands, and his current state of undress, let him know what he couldn’t remember.

He didn’t remember where he’d gone.

How long had he been staring at his hands?

His brow furrowed, as he finally dragged his eyes up, feeling his exhaustion reach an all new high with that minuscule action.

What the hell had he missed?

He couldn’t read the time. He could barely focus enough to even really see the harsh neon of the numbers, let alone try make sense of the blurred mess that made them up.  
Was it late? Was it early?

He wasn’t sure. The only light came from the half open door in to his refresher.

He didn’t even think he blinked, before suddenly he was squinting against an entire room full of light.  
Cool tiles pressed into his feet as the brightness around him made it even more impossible to determine what was in front of him.  
A nauseating blur, and he might have been staring into a mirror. He couldn’t be certain, all he could see was smudges of colour against an impossibly bright back drop of white.

He squeezed his eyes shut, head bowing down.

He was half bent over the sink, and he could taste bile in his mouth.  
With a grimace, he spat the rest out, pushing himself up to simply lean, hands on the sill, frowning down at the blood that was clearly mixing with his own saliva.

When did his vision clear?

He felt his eyes widen, head jerking up, and found himself staring impassively into a cell.

He was standing in parade rest, off to the side and a few steps behind a dark, cloaked figure. The sound of a respirator echoed harshly through the room.

Through the window in front of them, someone was screaming.

His eyes flew open, and he gasped for breath, hands clawing desperately at his chest.  
Nothing. There was nothing there. Only darkness, and his own hands holding around his throat and above his heart.

He kicked his way out of the blankets, almost hysterical with confusion. What was happening to him? What was going on? What didn’t he remember?

He stumbled, shoulder colliding painfully with the wall as his hand scraped at the door, scrabbling for the handle.  
Spilling into the refresher, a flick of a switch had him ducking his head against the pain of bright light against his dry eyes.  
What didn’t he remember? What did he do?

He lunged for the sink. The clean sink, white. No trace of blood. No trace of anything.

He stared down at it, taking note of how his hands trembled violently against the cold material.

When did his hands get so, scarred?  
He could feel the tension in his face. Could feel the head ache mounting, rising with his stress levels. Could feel it pending, like a fist on a door, demanding to be let in.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to look up. Wasn’t sure he wanted to know what he would see.

His breath was shaky, and a drop of water fell into the sink.  
A trembling wipe later, and he stared down at the faint moisture across his fingers, falling from his face.  
He ached like he shouldn’t. Not yet.  
Maybe not yet.

He needed to look, he needed to see.

Everything fell away. Sounds seemed muted. His harsh breathing didn’t really register.

Jango never got this old.  
He barked out a laugh, before collapsing, stumbling back until his back hit the wall and he fell to the floor with a low, painful keen.  
His next breath in felt like a bitten off sob.

He looked older, than the template had ever lived to be.

Chest heaving pitifully, Fox held a hand against it, failing to bring his breathing back under control, and instead just doing his best to force deep, painful gulps of air into his lungs.

He jerked at a beep, and blinked.

He was in his armour, face hidden under his helmet, finger on the trigger. The barrel of his gun was pointed straight into a familiar face.

Rex looked older too.


End file.
